


Something Beautiful . . . Something Meaningful

by beetle



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Art, M/M, Secret Admirer, Sketching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 08:57:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5918698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt by Somethingformyself: “Hi! I can't stop thinking about secret artist Finn. Like the First Order viewed art and recreation as rebellious and didn't approve of it. Anytime Finn would doodle they would rip apart his self esteem in regards to his art. So once he joins the resistance and has some downtime he secretly buys arts supplies and draws/paints. I keep seeing him as one of those really good untrained artist that just put everything they have into their art. Cue curious Poe and nosy BB-8.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Beautiful . . . Something Meaningful

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Notes/Warnings: Spoilers for Episode VII.

It was The Day.

 

The day the once-monthly delivery of unnecessaries arrived. And everyone was crowding about the main hangar, waiting less than patiently for their stuff to be unloaded from the supply ships. It’d been a month since the last such ship and everyone had been getting pretty nervous and antsy. Even Poe, with BB-8 at his heels, was anxious for his special supply of Death-by-Mocha coffee, his favorite shampoo, and a new pair of running shoes.

 

“Bunch of savages,” he muttered to BB-8, who beeped his agreement. Around them, people pushed and shoved to get to the ship’s cargo bay, where the workers who unloaded the supplies did as they always had: called out names based on whose cargo came most readily to hand. Most of the boxes containing people’s mostly non-necessary items were about the same size—read: the size of a bread box—and stacked in no particular order, let alone alphabetical.

 

Rather than rush the poor workers by asking them to search for his package—as some officers of rank did—Poe hung back at the edge of the crowd, whistling to himself as the crowd surged . . . then thinned. As it did so, Poe noticed, standing also at the edge of the crowd, a familiar, friendly face: Finn.

 

Odd. Poe had never seen _Finn_ waiting for anything during any of the supply runs. Considering the fact that Finn still ate protein rations instead of food—seriously . . . after six months of Base-living—and didn’t seem to have any hobbies other than showing everyone up at the shooting range, this made perfect sense to Poe.

 

Only now, here was Finn, upsetting that nice label and comfy box into which Poe had fitted him.

 

Poe drifted over to his cautiously excited friend, meaning to pass the time by shooting the shit, as he’d done before with others when his name was among the last to be called.

 

“Heyya, buddy.”

 

Finn started, turning his wide-eyed gaze on Poe. That cautious excitement became something close to abject horror when he recognized who was hailing him.

 

Odder, still.

 

“O-oh—hey, Poe. BB-8. How’s it, uh, going, guys?”

 

BB-8 beeped and Poe laughed a little. “It goes. How’re you?”

 

“Uh—I’m alright. Just, uh, waiting for a package. Like you and everyone else. Ha-ha.” Finn actually said _ha-ha_ , instead of just laughing, something Poe—people-reader, extraordinaire—associated with people trying to cover something up or keep something secret.

 

That was the absolute _oddest_. Finn didn’t have anything to cover up, what with everyone knowing he was an ex-Stormtrooper. And he didn’t have any secrets . . . did he? Not someone as open-hearted and base-line honest as _Finn_?

 

Poe glanced down at BB-8, brow furrowed. The little droid aimed an optical sensor back at him.

 

“Yeah, been a few days without my favorite coffee, myself. I think, when they call my name, after I grab my stuff, the first thing I’m gonna do is make myself a pot.” Poe grinned, shrugging off his previous thoughts of cover-ups and secrets. “You’re welcome to join me, pal.”

 

Finn’s already wide eyes widened and he started to demur, backing away from Poe a little bit. “Gee, that’s awful nice of you, Poe, but I—uh—have stuff to—uh, you know. I just really have to get started on, uh—”

 

“Stuff?” Poe supplied easily. Finn looked relieved and nodded.

 

“Yes, stuff. Um—” Finn looked around the hangar—everywhere but at Poe’s face. “Maybe I’ll just, uh, wait to get my package till later, when the crowd is—”

 

“ _Dameron, Poe!_ ”

 

Poe’s name being called startled them both, though Finn’s smile was one of pure relief. Poe’s own customary grin was notably absent.

 

“Well, I guess that’s me,” he said reluctantly, waving at the laborer who’d called his name so she knew not to put the package with the no-shows. “Anyway, if you change your mind about the coffee, buddy. . . .”

 

Finn blushed so deep the blush actually showed up under his complexion. “I know where to find you.”

 

“That, you do.” Poe nodded, and cracked an encouraging smile before sauntering off toward the newly-arrived ship and its precious cargo. “C’mon, BB-8, let’s get my coffee.”

 

BB-8 booped and beeped and followed Poe through the masses, which parted to let them through. By the time Poe got to the front of the crowd, his package was waiting at the bottom of the loading ramp. He hefted it in his arms, with a smile for the wranglers doing the unloading—got a smile back from Linn Saffa—and made his way back through the crowd, garnering smiles because of his own.

 

As he made his way through the last of the crowd, he spotted Finn, who’d moved deeper into the mass of people, the lone island of nerves and silence in a happily chattering sea.

 

“Huh,” Poe said to himself, receiving a questioning beep from BB-8. “Oh, nothing, just wondering what’s eating Finn.”

 

[Beep-boop-wah?]

 

“Not . . . worried about him. Not exactly,” Poe answered as they made their way across the hangar and to the base living quarters. “He just seems . . . antsier than usual.”

 

[Wahh-beep?]

 

“Well, yes, he usually _is_ kinda . . . high-strung. Especially for a marksman. But I mean he seems even more, uh, nervous than usual,” Poe mused, tucking his package closer to his chest. He could almost taste the precious coffee, therein.

 

[Beep-beep-boop?]

 

“Well, yeah. He’s been kinda different—distant and wary—since he came out of his coma. Always off somewhere by himself, never hanging around with any of the people who want to be his friends. . . .”

 

[Boop-wahh. . . .]

 

“Yes,” Poe admitted, frowning. “That includes me, and you know it.”

 

[Wahh . . . beep-beep-boop.]

 

“Yes, I’m curious as to what he ordered, too. But I’m not nosy enough to ask or otherwise go digging.” Poe glanced down at his droid friend. “And neither are you.”

 

[Wahh. . . !]

 

“No, I’m not being mean. I just don’t want Finn to feel like he’s being interrogated or spied on.”

 

[BEEP.]

 

“Well, of course, I know you’d never make him feel that way on purpose. But sometimes, high-strung people are easy to intimidate. Or alienate.” Poe sighed as they stepped and rolled, respectively into the base living quarters. “Maker knows I did my share of both when he first woke up.”

 

[Wahh-boop!]

 

“Well, no, not on purpose, but still. I was kind of . . . clingy and overbearing. Just because I spent all that time at his bedside while he was sleeping, I thought we’d automatically be best buds when he woke up. I thought that he’d maybe remember some of the things we— _I_ —talked about while he was sleeping. I thought . . . never mind what I thought. All that matters, is I’ve learned my lesson. If or when Finn wants a Poe Dameron-shaped nuisance in his life, he’ll let me know.”

 

BB-8 sighed, a sad little sound Poe didn’t hear all that often.

 

“Don’t worry, buddy. I’ve got plenty of friends, including you,” Poe reassured BB-8. “I’m not sad, so don’t _you_ be sad _for_ me.”

 

[Beep-boop.]

 

“Good.” Poe grinned as he turned off the main corridor, towards his sector. “Now, it’s coffee-time. And after that, I’m gonna go for a run, if you care to join me.”

 

[Wahh-beep.]

 

“Suit yourself, but if you don’t mind me saying, you’re looking a little round, there, my friend.” Poe laughed at his own joke, then jumped as BB-8 shocked his shin. “Ow! Damnit, I was just kidding! You know, you’re getting a little too quick on the draw with your electric prod!”

 

[Wahh-boop-tweet!]

 

“Yeah? Well, whoever told you shocking humanoids was funny has a screw loose.” Poe sniffed. “I’ll bet it was that R2-D2, wasn’t it?”

 

[Wahh!]

 

“Fine, go ahead. Keep your little secret. Just don’t shock me anymore.”

 

[Boop.]

 

“Good. And no going back on your word, or I’ll trade you in for a toaster.”

 

[WAHH!]

 

“Well . . . no, not _really_. You’re my little buddy. Even when you shock me.” Poe smiled down at BB-8, then, balancing the package with one arm, he reached up to the lock-plate on his door with the other. It scanned his hand and the door to his quarters whooshed open . . . then closed after he and BB-8 let themselves in.

 

Poe opened his package and put the shampoo in the bathroom, the running shoes by the door, and the coffee next to his small personal coffeemaker after relieving it of just enough coffee to make a cup.

 

Soon, his quarters began to smell of java and mocha. Poe paused at what he was doing—he’d taken the bit of down-time as an opportunity to do a little tidying up of his quarters—to turn on some music. About as loud as his ears could stand it . . . and soon, Poe was doing more dancing than he was tidying.

 

BB-8, at least, didn’t let the mission slip. He picked up clothes, clean and dirty, and piled them all on Poe’s messy bed.

 

When the coffee was done, Poe poured himself a steaming-hot cup, added some synthetic cream—not as good as _real_ cream, of course, but synth was what was available—and loads of artificial sweetener—again, it was what was available—before taking the first heavenly sip. . . .

 

Sitting at his messy desk, Poe turned on his monitor and checked his email. Nothing important, like a mission briefing, which suited Poe just fine. He nursed his coffee while answering personal emails, until the mostly empty mug was cool, and the emails were all as read and answered as they’d get.

 

All that done, Poe changed into his sweatpants—they were in the pile on the bed, and BB-8 seemed unjustifiably smug about that—and an old, faded blue t-shirt.

 

After some stretching, Poe jogged to the door, tossing a: “Hold down the fort, for me,” back at BB-8, who beeped his assent.

 

An hour later, his body tired, but thrumming, Poe jogged back to his quarters, garnering his usual plethora of smiles, waves, and wishes for a good evening. He returned each greeting in kind, but without stopping to talk. All he wanted was a shower, to drift off to dreamland watching holo, and a good night’s sleep.

 

When he took the final turn-off for his quarters, he spotted something on the floor in front of his door. Something flat, and orange, white, and silver in color.

 

Weariness forgotten, he put on a little speed. But he could make out what the object was before he reached his quarters. It was a piece of paper, with a picture on it. Sooner, rather than later, he was in front of his door, bending to pick up the picture, already smiling.

 

It was a sketch of BB-8. Several of them, in fact: one at an angle, near the top of the sheet, another of BB-8’s profile, a third, fourth, and fifth doodled in the margins of the paper; and the sixth—and certainly the largest—was of BB-8 facing the viewer, with his lighter-arm extended, the blue-orange flame like a thumbs up.

 

The larger studies were excellent, showing details only a keen eye would notice, yet still managing to convey BB-8’s speed and energy. The smaller doodles were all of BB-8 rolling somewhere, with little speed-lines around him. These were only sporadically colored, unlike the larger ones. The colors on these doodles were more like accents—a bit of orange here, a silver line there.

 

“Wow,” Poe breathed, absently splaying his hand on the lock-plate to his quarters. As he stepped inside, BB-8 greeted him with an excited beep, as if Poe had been gone for days, instead of an hour.

 

“Hey-hey, buddy! Look at what I just found outside the door!” Poe turned the paper so BB-8 could see it.

 

[Wahh. . . !]

 

“I know! It’s uncanny!” Poe turned the picture to look at it again. “Really good!”

 

[Beep-boop-dap?]

 

“Well, sure. I mean, it was left outside our quarters and it’s _of you_ . . . I think you were meant to have it, my friend.” Poe handed the paper to BB-8, who took it carefully and looked it over at several different angles, taking it in with his optical scanner, as well.

 

[Wahh. . . .]

 

Poe laughed, peeling off his sweaty t-shirt and heading toward the bathroom. “I think you’ve got yourself an admirer, buddy.”

 

[Beep?]

 

“I dunno who, but whoever they are, they’re really talented,” Poe opined, leaning on the bathroom door post. “Don’t lose that picture.”

 

[Beep-boop!]

 

Still chuckling, Poe went to his well-deserved shower.

 

#

 

It turned out that BB-8 wasn’t the only person the artist admired.

 

Two days later, Poe was in the mess, having just commandeered lunch, and was making his way to the center of the room—where the pilots and their gunners generally sat, though today, pilots and gunners were thin on the ground—only Jess Pava and one of the newer pilots, Lex Daltrey, were there. They were ooh-ing and ahh-ing over something on the table. When Poe arrived, he high-fived Jess and fist-bumped Daltrey before looking down at the object of their admiration.

 

It was another sketch, this one of Jess.

 

Like the one of BB-8, it was uncannily good, managing to convey Jess’ sense of humor by the quirky half-smile and the light in her dark eyes. Along the margins of the portrait, were doodles of Jess waving, Jess standing next to her X-wing, and Jess in the pilot’s seat of said X-wing.

 

“. . . _really_ good. I wonder why they left it on your doorstep, rather than just give it to you,” Daltrey was saying with just a hint of envy in his voice. “Whaddaya think, Poe?”

 

“I think it _is_ really good,” he said, setting his tray down and taking a seat next to Daltrey—with whom Poe had been having a mild flirtation and which would probably lead to a one night stand dead-end—who smiled at him and winked. “You know, Jess, someone left a sketch of BB-8 outside my door a couple days ago. I think it’s the same person. They have the same style.”

 

Jess’ eyebrows shot up. “Oh, yeah? Since when’re _you_ an expert on artist’s styles? Also, why would anyone sketch your droid _and_ me?”

 

Poe shrugged. “Dunno. But it’s the same person, I’m tellin’ you. Aside from the fact that they left this on your doorstep, like they left the one of BB-8 at _my_ doorstep, look at the lines, the way they swoop and curve, and the use of color—sparring, but not stingy. There’s a place for every line and every line is in its place. There’re no extraneous lines or swirls of color. Every stroke is—perfect. I mean, I don’t know art, but I can tell when two pieces were done by the same hand. BB-8 would totally back me up if he were here. Both pieces are . . . gorgeous.” Looking from Jess’ dark eyes, to Daltrey’s darker eyes, Poe found wry amusement in both his friends’ faces. “What?”

 

Jess chuckled. “Sounds like someone has a crush on the artist,” she singsonged.

 

“What? No!” Poe exclaimed, blushing. Daltrey elbowed him gently in the side.

 

“You’re kinda making me wish I could draw, Poe,” he said good-naturedly, wistfully. “I’d kill to be _that_ _appreciated_ by a cute guy.”

 

“ _I_ sure wouldn’t kick this artist out of bed for eating crackers.” Jess held up the picture, looking it over again. “Not when she’s packing this kinda talent.”

 

“And just what makes you think he’s a she, Pava?” Daltrey challenged, his dark, sharp-featured face hovering, as usual, near to a laugh. “He could be a _he_ , after all.”

 

Jess snorted. “Betcha she’s a she.”

 

“What if she’s _neither_? Or _both_?” Poe ventured, just to make Jess raise an eyebrow and Daltrey laugh.

 

“Hear that sound, Pava? Poe just blew our minds.”

 

“Ha! Speak for yourself, Daltrey.” Jess spooned up her pudding at light-speed and nodded at Poe’s own untouched lunch. “You’d better finish that quick, Mr. Mind-Blower. We’ve got a meeting with the general in fifteen.”

 

“Ah, fuck, yeah . . . I almost forgot,” Poe muttered, recalling the notification email he’d gotten earlier. Usually BB-8 reminded him of that sort of thing, But Poe hadn’t seen the droid since the previous evening.

 

“It was all that swooning and gushing over this bad-ass picture of me that made you forget,” Jess said and Poe rolled his eyes.

 

“I didn’t _swoon_ and I certainly _didn’t_ gush.” Poe dug into his lunch—some kind of goulash that looked kind of gross, but tasted pretty good. “Not even over this . . . amazingly talented artist.”

 

“Hmm. Then whom _do_ you swoon and gush over?” Daltrey asked, his right eyebrow quirked almost up to his hairline. Poe smirked.

 

“Wouldn’t _you_ like to know, Mr. Daltrey?”

 

“Actually, I would.” Daltrey eased his chair a bit closer to Poe’s. Poe smiled down at his goulash and Jess snorted—no doubt rolling her eyes as well—then stood up with her tray and her picture.

 

“I’m gonna hit the head before the meeting. You two . . . don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

 

“Well, that leaves the field of play _wide_ open,” Daltrey noted, and burst out laughing as Jess gave him the finger over her shoulder.

 

Poe managed to finish his lunch—a little faster than he’d liked—and flirt outrageously with Daltrey while he did so. Then he and Daltrey returned their trays and made their way to General Organa’s office.

 

Jess was already there, chatting with the general, who smiled as Poe and Daltrey entered—or rather, as Poe entered. He was stopped dead in his tracks by the sketch that’d been framed and held pride of place on the general’s over-burdened book shelf . . . right above the general’s head.

 

It was a study of the late general, Han Solo, done in the same fashion as the BB-8 sketch: General Solo in profile, at an angle, head on, and sketched in various action poses in the margins of the page. Again, color was used sparingly, more as an accent than as a style. It captured General Solo’s stubbornness and sense of humor, his kindness and a melancholy sort of yearning Poe had never seen on the man’s face before, but which seemed nonetheless to fit.

 

Poe stood in the doorway to General Organa’s office, barely noticing when Daltrey eased past him to take the middle of the three seats. But the general noticed Poe’s staring and glanced behind her.

 

“It’s really good, isn’t it?” She returned her gaze to Poe, still smiling, though that smile was a bit pained, now. “I found it laying outside my office door yesterday morning. Any idea who did it?”

 

“Uh, no,” Poe said, entering the office proper and taking a seat next to Daltrey. “But the same artist left a picture at my quarters for BB-8.”

 

“So Jessika said.” The general nodded. “Whoever they are, they do amazing work. I’d like to thank them in person.”

 

Poe sighed. “It doesn’t seem like they want to be known, even just to be thanked.”

 

“Hmm.” General Organa’s brow furrowed. “That’s a shame . . . they deserve recognition. However, if that’s not what they want . . . I suppose it’s just best to let it lie.”

 

Poe nodded his agreement, even though, not so deep down, he was wondering not just _who_ the artist was, but _why_ they wanted to remain anonymous.

 

After the meeting, Poe made his way back to his quarters, meaning only to stop by and see if BB-8 was there—there were repairs that needed to be done on the X-wing that Poe needed a droid’s help with—or if his pal was still off on whatever errands he ran when he wasn’t with Poe.

 

But at the last turn off, he saw another piece of paper laying on the floor before his door. From a distance, he could see this one was a study in skin-tone tan and flight-suit orange.

 

Heart beating a little faster, Poe nevertheless made himself walk sedately to his door and the picture in front of it.

 

It wasn’t a picture of BB-8, this time, but one of _Poe_.

 

Poe’s profile, semi-profile, portrait . . . and the same kind of action-doodles in the margins which showed Poe getting into his X-wing, Poe in the cockpit of his X-wing, and Poe standing next to his X-wing, waving at the viewer.

 

“Whoa,” Poe breathed, smiling as he pressed his hand to the lock-plate then stepped into his quarters when the door opened. It whooshed shut behind him and Poe drifted toward his bed, sitting in the pile of clothes BB-8 had left there the other day, and which still had yet to be sorted by Poe.

 

But he didn’t notice. All his attention was taken by the sketch. Each line, it seemed, was done deliberately, lovingly. Expertly. Every detail was just so—the person who’d sketched this had clearly been studying Poe quite a bit, for the portrait in the center of the page was the same face Poe saw every morning in front of the mirror . . . every smile- and laugh-line bracketing his eyes and smile. Every curl of Poe’s hair—Poe could’ve sworn he saw _individual hairs_.

 

Poe was so entranced by this rendition of his face that he barely noticed the door to his quarters open.

 

[Beep-woot?]

 

“Heyya, buddy.” Hovering in the doorway was BB-8. When Poe smiled, the droid came in, rolling up to Poe with his work-arm extended. Poe reluctantly gave his friend the sketch. BB-8 scanned it from several angles before handing it back to Poe, who gazed at it as one entranced. “It’s really good, isn’t it?”

 

[Beep!]

 

“I’m not one to swoon and gush, but this . . . is definitely swoon- and gush-worthy, BB-8.” Sighing, Poe followed every line with his eyes, certain that of all the pictures he’d seen by the unknown artist, this one was done with the most emotion. The most admiration. The most . . . affection.

 

These sketches of Poe were done from more than mind’s eye, but from heart’s eye, as well. Whoever had drawn these sketches of BB-8, Jess, and General Solo, had drawn them partially from what their mind remembered and partially from what their _heart_ remembered. And it was Poe’s opinion that the sketch of himself was the best of the lot—the most cunningly detailed, the most fond, the most . . . inspired.

 

“We’ve gotta figure out who’s doing these sketches, BB-8,” Poe decided suddenly, standing up and pacing to his desk and back to the bed. BB-8 watched silently as Poe repeated the pattern again. “He—or she—is amazing and deserves the recognition this kind of talent should get.”

 

[Wahh-boop?]

 

“Well, yes, I understand he may not want to be found out, but . . . hey,” Poe stopped his pacing and turned to face BB-8, his brow furrowed suspiciously. “How’d you know he’s a he, and not a she or they?”

 

[Boop-dat. . . .]

 

“No, I don’t want to get started on the X-wing repairs just yet,” Poe crossed his arms and glared down at BB-8. “I wanna know how _you know_ the artist is male.”

 

[Wahh . . . beep-boop.]

 

Poe’s expression softened. “No, BB-8, I won’t be mad at you. Even if what you did was against the rules. Okay?”

 

[Boop. . . .] BB-8 sighed and reluctantly began beeping and booping his way through a brief explanation. Poe listened, his eyes widening and brows lifting. Finally, he shook his head and knelt in front of BB-8.

 

“So basically, what you’re saying is, you hacked the security camera feed for this corridor, for around the time the artist left the sketch of you?”

 

[Wahh.]

 

Poe blinked . . . and shook his head, laughing suddenly. “Atta-boy, BB-8!”

 

The droid’s surprise was as palpable as sunshine on a winter day. [Boop?]

 

“Well—I’d say don’t make it a habit, but otherwise, I’m cool with it.” Still chuckling, Poe stood up and looked at his picture again and upwardly revised his estimate: these sketches weren’t affectionately done. They were _lovingly_ done, and nothing could convince him otherwise. Not with the proof of it in front of his very eyes. “So . . . you know who the anonymous artist is?”

 

[Beep.]

 

“Well?” Poe asked, glancing at BB-8. “Feel free to share.”

 

[Wahh-boop-weet. . . .]

 

“Whaddaya mean you don’t know if you should tell me?” Poe’s eyebrows shot up. “Is it . . . someone I don’t like?”

 

[Boop.]

 

“Well, that’s a relief—so just tell me who it is!”

 

BB-8 sighed and rolled back a couple of feet before aiming a sudden projection at the wall opposite Poe’s bed. It showed a familiar stretch of corridor, empty and still. For all of five seconds before furtive movement stirred from the west-facing corridor. It was a person, holding a piece of paper and seemingly waiting for something before he stepped into the light and the better range of the camera.

 

Poe’s mouth dropped open in shock.

 

#

 

Finn was busy with his latest sketches—of Rey—when the doorbell to his quarters chimed.

 

He sat up in his bed and got to his feet, padding across the narrow room to the door. He sat the sketchbook down on his desk and touched the lock-plate on his side of the door. When the door whooshed open Finn’s mouth dropped open in a gape.

 

Standing on his doorstep was none other than Poe Dameron—and with his sketch, no less. He held it up next to his face, as if daring Finn to make a comparison, but Finn was beyond words. “I—I—” he stammered, blushing hard. Poe’s keen gaze seemed to note even that.

 

“Just tell me,” Poe said quietly, holding the sketch a bit forward, now. “Was it you?”

 

Finn swallowed and looked down. He’d never been much of a liar. The one lie he’d ever told had backfired on him and got him tangled up with the Resistance. And though everything had eventually worked out for the best, it’d still been a giant clusterfuck. One that’d ended in a coma for Finn, after nearly being killed by Kylo Ren. “Yes,” he said miserably, not meeting Poe’s eyes. “I did it.”

 

Silence, then, from Poe, who was probably not pleased. Then after nearly a minute of bearing up under Poe’s regard, Finn apologized. The pilot sighed.

 

“Don’t be sorry, buddy . . . why’d you do it anonymously?”

 

Finn shrugged and mumbled unintelligibly, even to his own ears.

 

“Come again?”

 

Taking a deep breath and clearing his throat, Finn repeated himself and expanded on that explanation. “The First Order’s not . . . fond of Stormtroopers who draw. Or who do anything else artistic. When I was a kid, they used to rip up anything I drew in front of my entire barracks and dress me down like I’d violated some big rule . . . though there weren’t any _specific_ rules saying we couldn’t draw or paint or sculpt in our occasional free-time . . . it was just frowned upon.”

 

Another sigh from Poe, this one gentle and sad. “You _do_ realize that that’s fucked up, right? Taking away a child’s means of expression is . . . criminal. You didn’t deserve that. _No one_ deserves that. And now you’re in a place where you can express yourself in any way you like and no one’ll take away that means of expression or condemn you for being who you are. You know that, right?”

 

“I understand that, I guess. . . .” Finn studied his boots. “But old habits are hard to break. I still feel like I have to hide and I don’t know why.”

 

“Look at me, Finn.”

 

Finn shook his head once. “I—I’m sorry. I mean about being anonymous. I didn’t mean to offend you or freak you out, I just wanted to . . . to give you something beautiful. Something meaningful.”

 

“So you gave me a picture of _myself_?” Poe asked, sounding just a tiny bit amused. Somehow, Finn blushed deeper and shrugged again.

 

“Like I said, I wanted to give you something beautiful and meaningful. _You’re_ the most beautiful and meaningful thing I know,” Finn said, helpless to do anything but keep telling the truth, now that he’d gotten started. “I mean, I know it doesn’t do you justice, but that’s only because I drew it from memory . . . imperfect memory.”

 

Another silence stretched between them until Poe sighed. “Finn . . . are you ever gonna _look_ at me?”

 

“I’m . . . kind of afraid to.”

 

“Well, you shouldn’t be. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

 

At this, Finn frowned and glanced up at Poe. The other man’s face was solemn, but he was also smiling a little. “Me? You’re kidding, right?”

 

“Nope. And there, isn’t that better? Wasn’t that easy?” Poe asked almost playfully. Finn found that his own smile was beginning a slow, wary journey across his face.

 

“You and I clearly have different meanings of _easy_ and _brave_.”

 

Poe chuckled and stepped closer to Finn, until they were both in the doorway, sharing personal space and air. “So . . . you think I’m beautiful and meaningful?”

 

Blushing again, Finn also looked away once more. “I . . . well, yeah.”

 

“No one’s ever thought that about me before, you know?” Poe snorted. “Well, maybe my mom, but moms _have_ to think their kids are special.” He laughed a little and stepped a bit closer. In fact, another step forward and they’d be pressed against each other. Not that that would be a _bad_ thing, but Finn was pretty sure that if that happened, his circuits would blow permanently, and he’d be left gaping and drooling in front of the man he’d loved—mostly from afar—since he’d woken up in the infirmary to a warm hand holding his own and Poe Dameron . . . fast asleep and sawing wood.

 

Maybe even since before that.

 

“Maker help me—Finn . . . _look at me_.”

 

Finn shook his head. “I can’t think when I look at you. My brain turns into white noise and static every time I see you.” Finn paused, his brow furrowed. “Especially when you smile.”

 

Poe laughed. “Finn, are you _serious_?”

 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Finn ran a hand over his hair. “But you make me nervous, and when I’m nervous, I say stuff that’s sometimes inappropriate and possibly offensive.”

 

Poe made an exasperated sound, and a moment later, the unthinkable was happening: Poe was stepping closer, so their bodies were pressed lightly together. His arms wound around Finn’s neck—his right hand being careful of the sketch it held—and he leaned his forehead against Finn’s.

 

“I think _you’re_ beautiful and meaningful, too, Finn,” Poe murmured. And this time, when Finn dared to look up, Poe closed the small distance between their faces with a soft, chaste peck on the lips. “Gonna invite me in and show me your etchings?”

 

Finn frowned. “I, um, don’t have any etchings, yet. Just my sketchbook . . . if you wanna see _that_?”

 

“Finn, I—” Poe chuckled, shaking his head wryly. “You know what? I would _love_ to see your sketchbook.”

 

“Alright,” Finn smiled shyly, meaning to step aside to let Poe in, but Poe was still holding on to him tight. His eyes, when Finn could meet his gaze, were so intent and intense, Finn couldn’t read them. So he backed them into his quarters, his arms sliding around Poe’s waist as their legs almost, but not quite, got tangled up. “Sorry for the mess.”

 

Poe’s brows drew together as he glanced around Finn’s quarters, then back at Finn. “Seriously? Finn, I wish my quarters were messy like yours. I don’t even remember what color my floor is.”

 

Finn smiled—then went tumbling backwards in surprise, taking Poe with him, as the backs of his calves hit the foot of the bed. When Finn landed on the bed, he had the wind driven out of him by Poe’s compact, but muscular form landing on top of him. By the time Finn caught his breath and the room stopped spinning, Poe had straddled his thighs and was staring down at Finn as if he was a meatloaf and Poe’d forgotten to pack a lunch.

 

“Well,” Poe said, leaning down and bracing his arms on Finn’s chest, his eyes shining and half-lidded. “Fancy meeting you here.”

 

Finn bit his lip. “My, um, sketchbook is on my desk,” he said, for lack of anything else to say.

 

Poe smiled and leaned in, kissing Finn lightly on the lips. “Can we look at it later? Perhaps tomorrow morning?”

 

Eyes widening, Finn swallowed once more and nodded, wrapping his arms around Poe once more. He felt ridiculously good and right in Finn’s arms. On Finn’s body. His hazel eyes were still shining and seemed to be lit from within.

 

Finn’s fingers itched to draw Poe like this. . . .

 

But his sketchbook was across the room, and—and—

 

“I must confess to . . . wanting you very badly.” Poe nibbled at Finn’s lower lip, then trailed those biting kisses to Finn’s ear. “Every time I see you, I wanna kiss you and touch you and freaking _impale_ myself on you.”

 

 _Oh, well_ , Finn thought as Poe continued kissing him and whispering dirty nothings in his ear . . . and grinding down against him _hard_. _It’ll keep until the morning_.

 

END


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